


Teenage Dirtbag

by jewboykahl



Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Depression, Falling In Love, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, One Shot, POV First Person, Sad and Happy, Sad boi hours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:48:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29090070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jewboykahl/pseuds/jewboykahl
Summary: Kenny is part of Craig and those guys and he doesn’t talk to Stan—he just thinks about him and watches from a far. That is until one night when they reconnect and find that they’re still the only ones who understand each other.
Relationships: Stan Marsh/Kenny McCormick
Comments: 12
Kudos: 16





	Teenage Dirtbag

“Hello,” I greet the class as I stand before them awkwardly. It is junior year and for some reason the teacher wants everyone to introduce ourselves with an “artifact” that represents our personality or an important aspect of our lives. She is definitely a fresh-out-of-college kinda teacher, eager to make connections with her students and have meaningful discussion. I’m really all for that, honestly, but it’s always fun to do a bit of hazing. 

“I’m Kenny. Some call me Ken, my friends call me ‘dumbass’, my mother calls me her little failed abortion,”

I hear a snigger. It’s brief and it barely means anything, but when I find the culprit my heart stutters. Stan Marsh is stifling a laugh. I smile. 

I clear my throat and reach into the deep pocket of my worn out jean jacket. I procure an empty, smushed Marlboro Reds packet and raise it in my hand for all to see. Presenting it with my free hand in a mock grandiose gesture, I announce, “This is an old pack I found under my bed, probably circa when I was 12… It represents me because not only do I smoke these cigarettes, so does everyone else in my immediate family.”

I turn to the new teacher, positive I’m about to be hit with a detention—and I’m sorta wondering if it was even worth it. Instead, I find a somewhat horrified expression across her face. She doesn’t say anything, so I finish off my speech with a nod and a “Thank you for your time.” 

“Wow, thanks Kenny! Alright… uh, next is Kevin Stoley!” the teacher finally spouts her response as I trace back to my desk beside two of my good friends. They’re rolling their eyes at me in a way that lets me know I should’ve played my audience better—Clyde would’ve found that way funnier. 

Stan Marsh laughed though, so, that’s a win in my book. I really miss his laugh.

I don’t know anymore, but Stan used to have three different laughs: his trying-to-be-polite-about-something-that-isn’t-really-that-funny snort, his casual quick cackle, and his authentic, soulful, head-thrown-back crack up laugh. I loved every single one, but the last example was by far my favorite. It’s been a very long time since I’ve earned any of them though, so I think I’ll be in a good mood all day. 

“Hey, _dumbass_ ,” Token whispers when I reclaim my creaky desk beside him. I send a smirk his way as he continues, “that was quite the stunt.” 

“Gotta leave my impressions,” I shrug, drifting my gaze back over to the teacher. She must actually love what she does, because her black t-shirt reads “English Teachers Get Lit”. I can’t decide if it’s charming or super dorky. “my goal in every class is to be a story that my teachers tell their future students.” 

“I’ve unfortunately heard a few Kenny stories,” Craig crumbles on my other side. “like, how you found a piece of lunch meat in one of your notebooks in the middle of class with no explanation of how it got there.” 

I stifle my laughter at the memory—that was pretty fucking bizarre. “Yeah, unsurprisingly that traumatized poor Ms. McKay.” 

Craig peers back toward the front of the class when another student gets up to present their artifact. His chin is in his hand. “Seems like something Kenny-on-Acid would do.” 

“You’re right. I kinda miss Acid Kenny..”

Token groans, “I don’t.” 

I chuckle to myself and swiftly become distracted by a flash of dark hair and royal blue Broncos hoodie. Stan is taking his turn presenting his artifact. 

“Uh, hey, everyone who already knows me,” he begins, earning a few amused sighs and chuckles. “I’m Stan, and I brought my dog, Sparky’s, collar… He passed away this summer and it sucked… But I guess it just represents that I really love dogs. So, yeah… Thanks.” 

My eyes follow him back to his seat, and my stomach is suddenly filled with rocks. I had no idea Sparky died. The fact that I was there the day after Stan got Sparky as he showed him off at the bus stop made me feel strangely very guilty for being unaware of his passing. 

Most of the time I’m cool with how I’ve drifted apart from Stan, and our other friends, Kyle and Cartman. To be real, they were fucking jerks to me most of the time and not really that great of friends ever. They’ve always been caught up in their own thing—too busy, smart, talented, angry, or _rich_ for poor, stupid, sniffing-paint and taking-care-of-his-lil-sis Kenny. Plus, I really love my friend group, who I used to refer to as _Craig and those guys_. Each time I’d come crawling back to them after being ditched by Stan, Kyle, or Cartman (or all three, collectively), they welcomed me with open arms. 

Eventually I just stayed. Especially when we started sharing bud. But smoking cloves isn’t the only reason I like them—I share something with everyone. Token and I love _Marvel_ , Jimmy and I communicate through jokes, Tweek and Craig are queer like me, and Clyde talks girls with me. Altogether we smoke, but we’re all close for different and similar reasons. 

One thing I never seemed to make my peace with is my stupid, pathetic, dumb crush on Stan. I’m starting to think he’s a fucking wizard and cast a spell on me to think he’s cute and interesting no matter what he does or how little we talk. Even now that I think it’s been half a year since our last conversation. 

Fuck it, though. I was gonna die unhappy anyways. 

_

Today’s just gonna be one of those days I think about him all day. I can’t seem to shake the weird, strong surge of guilt I felt for not knowing Stan lost his dog. 

I mean, how the hell was I supposed to know? I saw the dude probably two times all summer. I only distinctly remember one instance because it was at Token’s birthday party—Token’s _pool_ party. And Stan was shirtless, and his football-player build was on full, sexy, soaking wet display. Thankfully Heidi Turner decided to cling to me that night in her new two-piece bikini, and I could pretend she was the reason my dick was so fucking hard. 

Anyways, I still just feel bad for not saying anything along the lines of a standard _sorry for your loss_ or _he was a good boy_ condolence. He’s just been gone for months, and Stan didn’t even think to tell me, and I would never think to ask.

“You okay, Kenny?” Tweek’s voice snags me from my thoughts. 

I flick my eyes up to find his eyebrow cocked at me. Craig rapid-fires a follow-up remark from across the cafeteria table: “Yeah, it’s been a whole two minutes and you haven’t said anything annoying yet. You must be on the cusp of a brain aneurysm holding it in.” 

“Please, Tucker, you know my annoying shit gives you purpose. You’d be lost without me.” I remind him with a wink before returning my attention to Tweek, who cares about me in a way that isn’t masked by 15 layers of irony. I grin, “Thanks, Tweeks, but I’m just fine ‘n dandy.” 

“You hear about Bebe’s party Friday night?!” Clyde exclaims the millisecond after he hears that I’m okay. His face is lit up like a kid in a candy store. “Her and Wendy’s parents are going to some kind of convention or meeting or something. Anyways, I already told her all of us are coming and helping with the booze, so—“ 

“Stop fucking volunteering me for that shit, man! You know my parents would kill me if they found out what I was doing!” Tweek shoots back, looking as though he’s having a premonition of his parents punishing him. 

“Stop volunteering me for that shit, too. Because I don’t, like… care or want to be involved.” Craig adds, whipping out his phone, ready to disengage as he usually does when talks of parties come up. He’s never been a party guy—which probably anybody could guess after hearing two monotone ass words come out of his mouth. 

Clyde rolls his big, brown, puppy dog eyes to me, which oddly always works. Even if I’m already on board. I nod, “I’ll hit Kevin up.” 

“This is why you’re my favorite,” Clyde sighs in relief as he slumps down beside Craig. He glares at him. “Why is Kenny the only person I can count on?” 

Tweek scoffs, “Your measure of a good friend is insane. Like, really, you’ve lost your mind, and I completely blame Bebe.” 

Craig chuckles. “Obviously we’ll come to the dumb party and pay Kenny’s brother to get us drunk.” 

“See, babe, you can count on all of us,” I assure Clyde. I try to be as absolutely nonchalant as possible when I pose the question, “are your football friends comin’?” 

“Probably like… the whole team, since all the cheerleaders are coming. And we all, like, just instinctively interbreed.” Clyde explains as he plops a few pieces of popcorn chicken in his mouth. 

Tweek makes a gagging noise and Craig shoves the cackling Clyde aside and says, “What did I tell you about being straight that close to me?” 

I half-listen to my friend’s pointless argument, finding Stan in the cafeteria. He’s sitting beside Kyle, who’s got a highlighter pressed to a notepad. He looks like he could fall asleep at any second. I wish I could look away. Usually I can after a second or two, but today I just can’t. Sometimes my heart just hurts if I look away. Sometimes it hurts if I look too long. Liking Stan really sucks ass. 

_

“Dude, this is fucking insane,” I say after reading over Bebe’s list of requested alcoholic beverages. I shake my head, “I’m gonna get half of this. And I’ll still be a little over budget.” 

Clyde laughs, settling on the floor beside my bed as he turns his grinder. He sighs, “Girls got expensive taste. Just hope it involves me somewhere along the line.” 

“Trust me—alcohol for a party is a very important task. If she’s puttin’ you in charge, it means she’s testing your relationship capabilities.” I explain, looking for a pen to cross half of the items on this ridiculous list. 

“You really think so?!” He sounds far too excited, but I guess I get it—Bebe is super hot. She’s also by far the most _woman_ of anyone in our grade, if you get me. 

I throw him a nod over my shoulder after finally finding an old ballpoint. “Hell yeah, dude. She’s grooming you.” 

“I hope you’re right, man. I’ve been grooming myself for her since the third grade.” Clyde replies as he sprinkles the ground up remains of our precious Trainwreck into a hollowed-out blue raspberry White Owl. 

I trace back over to my bed when I’m done correcting Bebe’s high expectations and slump down at his side as he licks the paper. The way Clyde rolls up always kinda grosses me out—way too much saliva is involved. But it gets the job done and he always lets me take the first hit. 

After the first few hits, I already feel an energized buzz. That’s the best thing about Trainwreck—it hits hard and right away; and it hits amazing. Clyde is already _gone,_ giggling over my revised list of booze. “Dude—we cannot bring only this!” 

I wait until his laughs quiet down a bit before explaining humorously. “Does it look like I’m made of goddamn money, Donovan? Unless Bebe’s putting up some cash, it’s gonna be either half of this shit, or the cheap version of all of it.”

A goofy smile is stretching Clyde’s lips as he sets the note down and focuses his bloodshot stare at the ceiling. “I know you’re right… man, you ever think someone’s gonna be the death of you?” I nod as I inhale another drag of our joint. Clyde continues, “Like, I seriously considered stealing my dad’s credit card again to buy her all of this… just to make her happy. Just to prove I’d do anything for her,” he wobbles his head over to me and cocks an eyebrow far too expressively, “do you think that’s pathetic?” 

I shake my head and pass him the flaming, potent marijuana. “Not at all. I think it’s really brave.” 

“Brave?” Clyde repeats, coughing a bit as smoke trickles out of his mouth. 

I nod, extrapolate. Suddenly all of my thoughts and ideas seem extremely clear and it’s much easier to be forthcoming about my feelings and opinions. “You just put yourself out there. Nobody else that I know ever does that.” 

Clyde barks a laugh, “What do you mean? You’ve fucked, like, half the school!” 

I laugh along before protesting, “First of all, that’s not even true. Second of all, I dunno, man, it’s just not the same. You aren’t afraid to tell people how you feel. All I do is have meaningless sex.” 

“You say that like that’s not awesome,” Clyde quips, sending the joint back my way. 

I lock my gaze on the red embers burning the edges of the brown paper. There’s a leftover gnawing feeling in my gut from learning Sparky died the other day. I feel like those points shouldn’t have connected in my head, but they do. Clyde’s continued determination to woo Bebe reminds me of my perpetual, unspoken conquest for Stan’s affection. It makes me feel pathetic and like I need to get off my ass and do something about it—maybe it’s just the Trainwreck. 

“Your old buddy Marsh is coming,” Clyde announces after a bout of silence, as if reading my mind. 

I grant him a narrowed look. “Be weird if he didn’t come with the rest of the team,” 

Then, Clyde says something insanely intuitive and unexpected. It actually makes me uncomfortable. “I just thought you’d like to be aware of that opportunity.” 

I’m sure my stare is bewildered but I don’t care—that is way too on the nose for me. I quickly change the subject, refusing to ruin my high on a spiral of panic over my stupid feelings for Stan. I clear my throat, “We should invite some gay North Park kids and get Craig laid. He’s been extra grouchy lately.” 

“I noticed, too!” Clyde exclaims. This kid is too easy to derail the thought process of—especially if he has the chance to talk about his two favorite people, Bebe and Craig. “And that’s saying a _lot_.”

We bullshit a little longer before Clyde decides to go and talk to Bebe about the alcohol shortage while he still has artificial confidence from the bud. He leaves me alone with my intrusive thoughts of Stan Marsh and his dog and his football body and how he’s gonna be at the party. I wonder if I’ll talk to him. After months of radio silence it’ll be really fucking weird to just go up and chat like we’ve been talking all along—but that’s exactly what I want to do. I wanna hear his voice for longer than 30 seconds in class. I wanna hear more than a snigger at something idiotic I said. 

I want more from Stan Marsh. 

And why not go get it? 

It’s definitely the Trainwreck now, but suddenly going a few houses down to offer my condolences to Sparky seems like a fan-fucking-tastic idea. Sober Kenny will probably fucking hate me even more than he already does, but honestly, fuck him. He’s a pussy. 

I pick myself up off my carpet and grab my jacket. I sling it over my shoulders and bustle toward the front door before I can talk myself out of visiting the Marsh residence. 

It’s a short walk but I light a cigarette anyway. I take long drags as I try to decide whether or not to text him that I’m outside or just knock on his door. Both options seem pretty awkward, but considering I haven’t shot him a text since I was confused about homework last quarter, knocking seems less awkward. 

Still awkward, though.

Honestly, what the hell am I doing? 

Right… knocking on Stan Marsh’s door. 

It’s a door I’ve been through many times, but less so than his old house beside the Broflovski’s in the larger South Park neighborhood. His mom’s ranch is cozy and comfortable, the most comforting aspect being the lack of Randy, who is still increasingly losing his mind at Tegridy Farms. Suddenly I’m panicking, wondering if Stan’s visiting his dad tonight. What the hell would I say if Sharon opens the door? _Oh, hey, yeah, haven’t seen or talked to you in several years! No, Stan and I aren’t friends, I’m just here to tell him that I’m sorry his dog died and that I miss him!_

I am mind-numbingly stupid and far too confident off of this stuff. 

Thankfully the period of unknowing comes to an end when the front door swings ajar to reveal Stan. His pajamas make me wonder how fucking late it is—how long were Clyde and I just sitting there, staring at the ceiling? The loose pants also make my throat close up, especially when I see that they are paired with a fitted, white v-neck. 

“Kenny?” Stan’s voice cuts through the night and stabs my brain like a poison dagger. Maybe it’s because a scenario I played through in my head was him falling into my arms for a jolly embrace, and we make up for the lost years by going to share an ice cream cone together. More likely, though, I’m just drawing a blank on what to say and fucking terrified of his gorgeous face. He continues, “What’re you doing here? Are you okay?” 

Reflexively, I flash him a smirk and nod. I want to clear my throat but my words come out before I get the chance, “Hey, Stanley. Yeah, I’m good, I just… I came by to talk to you for a minute. About, uh…” 

Fuck… of course after being laser focused on the topic all week and then given a confidence boost by treacherous Trainwreck, and I can’t even fucking remember why Stan had been on my mind incessantly all week. 

Other than the fact that this just happens from time to time. 

“About…?” Stan wonders, and I make the mistake of flicking my eyes up to his face. Goddamn, he just keeps getting hotter. His ocean blue eyes _literally_ shine. His lips are the most perfect shade and shape I’ve ever seen. His arms are subtly muscular and it is a struggle for the white fabric of his shirt to contain his biceps. My mouth waters. I’m too fucking distracted by him. 

Suddenly, thankfully, it hits me: “I just, I didn’t know about Sparky. I wanted to tell you I’m really sorry. He was really cute and good.” 

I want to melt away into a puddle of nothingness when an appreciative grin curls Stan’s lips. He leans back from the doorframe. “Uh, thanks, man. That’s really nice of you to say. You didn’t have to, like, come all this way in the freezing cold, though, you know? You could’ve texted me.” 

It’s an innocent, casual, common response, but it feels like a knife in the heart. I shrug. “Doesn’t even feel cold to me.” 

Stan purses his lips, scanning my face for a moment before inquiring, “How high are you?” 

I let out a soft laugh before I even finish the joke: “No, it’s, _hi, how are you._ ” 

My heart soars along with Stan’s laugh #2, his nod in my direction, and his clarification question. “Seriously, aren’t you freezing? It’s starting to be ungodly cold at night again.” 

“Not to confirm your suspicions that I’m super high, but… what time is it?” 

With an amused smirk, Stan checks the time on his iPhone. I like his red case. I like his fingers more. “It’s 8:30,” he tells me, slipping his phone back into his pocket. 

“Oh, shit,” I huff in surprise. I wasn’t ready for that number. Now that I’ve learned it’s a solid two hours later than I thought, I’m questioning when Clyde even left my house—where he is now. I inhale again and click my tongue to the roof of my mouth, “well, sorry to come by so late, I just… wanted to say I’m sorry. I know how much Sparky meant to you and for what it’s worth you were a really fuckin’ awesome owner to him. Like, if I was a dog, I’d definitely want someone like you to take care of me,” _what the fuck am I saying?_ “Anyways, I’ll see ya around.” 

I truly thought it was impossible to hate myself more than I already did, but I really just sealed the deal. I turn on my heels and set off the porch, ready to keep walking straight off a bridge, until Stan’s voice beckons me backwards. “Hey, wait a sec,” 

I turn back, afraid of the fallout. His expression is no longer easily readable for me. It’s kind of sad, but kind of exhilarating. Especially when he asks, “Do you have any more?” 

“What? Weed?” I ask for confirmation. He nods. I cock eyebrow and reply teasingly, “As I live and breath—Stanley Marsh wants to get high?!” 

He laughs again—this one seems somewhere in between laugh #2 and #3. My heart swells. I’m already learning more about him. He wraps his arms around himself to combat the nippy breeze. He shrugs, “I guess I finally came around to it. Only for the medical benefits, of course.” 

Stan no longer hating weed because of Randy’s influence is hilarious to me—but also sort of makes me mad. One of the things that caused our drift is his hatred for my habit. Whatever, though. I’m more than willing to let bygones by if it gets me more time with Stan. 

“Well, if it's for medical purposes, I guess I can help ya out.” 

My heart idiotically swells again when his pleased grin widens. He backtracks, “I’ll go grab my wallet and coat,”

“Just the coat—it's on the house. For Sparky.” I assure him with a wink.

Another chuckle emits before he excuses himself behind the door. I wanna pinch myself because it’s been so fucking long since I’ve hung out with Stan, and I can’t believe my improptu visit/grief session worked. Also, why did that interaction feel so easy and smooth after years of barely talking? 

I lit a cigarette instead of pinching myself, and am only two drags in when Stan slips through the front door, changed into black jogger sweatpants and a thick Cartharrt coat. A grey knit beanie covers his thick, black hair. He’s so goddamn cute it’s not even fair—but maybe I’ll finally get to do something about it tonight.

It’s doubtful though. I can pull anyone but him—he’s always stunted my confidence. I think he’s just too real. 

As we walk away from his mom’s home, something occurs to me, “Where’s your mom?”

“She’s working,” he informs me, watching his Nikes kick pebbles on the sidewalk from his path.

I’m confused. “Tom’s Rhinoplasty is opened nights now?” 

Stan chuckles, shakes his head, “No, she got a second job as a receptionist at Hell's Pass. Since Shelley’s over 18, my dad doesn’t pay child support for her and my mom needed the extra cash.” 

“Gotcha,” I accept the new information with a frown. I would be surprised at Stan being so forthcoming with personal information right off the bat of our reunion but he’s always had a terrible poker face. It’s very easy to tell when he’s upset, and he’s bad at keeping the cause of his upsetness to himself. Like— _really_ bad. I grant him a sympathetic frown, “Sorry.” 

Stan shrugs, sighs, “It’s fine. I get away with leaving my house at 8 at night to go smoke weed, so,” 

I simper at him, “You turnin’ into a dirtbag like me, or just experimenting?” 

He rolls those pretty blue eyes. “You’re definitely not a dirtbag. And I don’t know… I just want to not be sober right now.” 

Nodding, I respond, “That’s the constant mood for me.” 

There’s small talk all the way back to my house, which is unsurprisingly vacant. I’m never shocked when my parents aren’t home at night, and now I’m used to my little sister hanging out with Craig’s little sister. They’ve been besties for a while now and I really like to mess with Craig about them being lesbian lovers. I push the front door open and apologize for the reek of cigarettes and cat piss. 

“You’ve redecorated,” Stan jokes about the pile of garbage on the coffee table, “last time I was in here your dad put a big, leaky carburetor sitting there.” 

I snort, “Thanks for noticing, we have great taste.” 

Stan follows me into my bedroom. Usually I don’t give a shit what my house looks or smells like but I’m sort of embarrassed right now. Stan just looks so out of place here; it’s like he just deserves better. It’s also now that I realize _he_ smells really good. It’s kinda a mix of Old Spice and lavender. 

When we slip into my room, I feel a bit better about myself, since it’s the cleanest room in the house. I had even thrown my dirty clothes into the old basket in my closet. I go straight to my dresser and slide the top drawer open. Stan brings his sweet scent and cute laugh into the room with him. “I see you haven’t dedecorated.” 

After grabbing the glass baby food jar I keep my weed in, I turn to find him scrutinizing the poster of a hot, golden-skinned blonde chick in a red bikini over my bed. I blow a raspberry as I twist open the lid to my jar to scrutinize my stash. “I could never part with her. After years of jacking off to it, I got a whole storyline for us.” 

Stan scrunches his nose in distaste, but he’s smiling when he asks, “Really now?” 

“Oh yeah,” I confirm after deciding there’s plenty of my stash left to get a novice nice and toasty. “You ever smoke out of a bowl?” 

He nods, seemingly a bit relieved. “I’ve only _ever_ smoked out of a bowl.” 

With that I go back to my drawer of sins and look for the glass pipe that my friends got me for my birthday. Tweek was very proud of the tye-dye design he picked out for me. My eyebrows come together when after a few seconds of rustling I can’t find it. I hum to myself, trying to discern where I could’ve left it if not the drawer hosting almost all of my paraphernalia. 

After the search around my bed and under my covers comes up fruitless, I sigh, pretty confident of the object’s whereabouts. “Fuckin’ Karen.” 

A bewildered look crosses his face. “Your little sister smokes weed? Isn’t she, like, eight?” 

I bark a laugh and shrug. “She might as well be. She’s fourteen, though. I’m pretty sure Craig’s sister is responsible for that habit, though,” I turn back to Stan and announce, “I’ll just have to go get a can. I think my parents have some beer in the fridge.” 

There is a visible lump in Stan’s throat at the mention of beer. I quickly feel like a jackass and send him a frown. I can’t believe I forgot this kid used to be an alcoholic. “I’m sorry… You wanna just go down to the Safeway and get some pop?” 

“Uh, sure, thanks,” he agrees. 

I feel really bad as we head back out of my house after I’d slipped my jar into a deep pocket of my cargo pants. It’s clear Stan’s sober since he isn’t stumbling around, reeking of whiskey like I’d unfortunately witnessed a few times. I just don’t know how long he’s been clean, Shit, maybe he isn’t and he’s just functional now—maybe that’s why he’s searching for a high tonight. 

I stash my hands into the pockets of my jacket and wish I’d remembered to grab mg gloves. I’m starting to notice it is a pretty cold night. I’ve definitely experienced colder, but I’d be more comfortable a bit more bundled up. It seems like Stan’s feeling it as well, as he’s sorta curled into himself. The tip of his nose is beginning to obtain a red tinge, which is barely detectable with only street lamps lighting our path to the gas station. I try not to smile at the memory of Stan’s entire face getting super red from the cold whenever we played outside for too long—especially when we were playing _Game of Thrones_ and he refused to wear a jacket with his knight costume. I remember telling him he was insane for not covering up. He told me he wanted to make fun of me for shoving a dress over my thick, orange parka, but that I somehow made it look “adorable”. I never wanted to keep my princess costume on forever after he said that. 

“So, you still haven’t told me about your life with that model on your poster.” Stan breaks the brief silence, casting his stare to the side of my face.

I try not to seem too eager to meet it, but when I do I can’t help the grin that finds my lips. “That’s right. Well, we’re very happy together.” 

Stan hums. “Are you married?” 

“Oh, of course,” I assure, taking out a hand to count our amenities on my fingers, “we got a nice house with a white picket fence, finished basement, walk-in closets, island in the kitchen.” 

“Nice. Obviously you have a daughter,” Stan contributes to my fantasy. 

“Obviously,” I confirm. “She looks just like her mama.” 

Stan hums. “Is she a math whiz?” 

I shake my head, “Nope, that’s my younger girl. She can solve any equation you give her. She’s goin’ to Harvard, y’know,”

With that casual, quick chuckle, he assures me, “Well, congratulations, man, that sounds pretty great. I really feel like if any of us is gonna end up married to a model it will definitely be you.” 

I scoff at the ridiculous notion, “Right. A 5’6” redneck is gonna climb the billion rungs of the social ladder it would take to date a model that would end up having four inches of height on me.” 

“Hey, if I can be a 5’9” quarterback, anything is possible,” Stan reassures. 

We glance up at the sky together, noticing it’s completely pitch dark now. The thousands of shining stars littering the atmosphere are on full display. It’s kinda been a long time since I remember just looking up at the endless sheet of blackness looming over our heads. I’m not sure why, but it fills me with a warm, nostalgic feeling. 

Maybe it’s just the fact that Stan’s beside me and it feels totally normal. 

“Plus,” Stan goes on with an expression I can’t quite decipher, “from what I hear, you don’t have any problem getting laid.” 

I send him a lazy smile. I still can’t tell if he seems amused or annoyed. I shrug, “What can I say? I’m perfect motor boat height. And all the guys I’ve fucked are in denial, so being small helps soothe their fragile masculinity.” 

I still really don’t know what he is, but it’s definitely not amused. Scared, maybe? He clears his throat, avoids eye contact. “Dare I ask a number?” 

“It’s really not that high,” I respond. This conversation is not the only one that consisted of me defusing rumors of my epic, thousand bitch sex life that someone crafted for me. “I’m sure our body count is close to the same.” 

We reach the corner that the Safeway gas pumps are situated. Rather than go to the actual Safeway not too far down the road, I find myself at this small, poorly managed shack-like building a few times a week. There’s one worker that always sells me rellos and it’s definitely quicker for picking up a few drinks. 

Disbelief is written into Stan’s features, but he changes the subject. “Is smoking out of a can hard?” 

“It’s not really any different than a bowl,” I answer as we continue to trek inside the establishment. “Especially if you know where to make the holes, which I do. I think you just feel way more desperate.” 

“Desperate?” Stan questions as we make a beeline for the coolers lined with all the kinds of pop America has to offer. 

I shrug as I tug open a large, cold door to obtain a can of Sprite. “Yeah. Going from an actual pipe to a can makes you feel like a fiend. Trust me, you’ll know what I mean here soon.” 

We trace the short distance over to the checkout counter and allow the bored looking middle-aged woman scan our Sprite and Coke. He mutters our total and I hand her two one-dollar bills. I let the change fall into the plastic tub that says something about saving the children and tell her to have a good night even though she doesn’t respond. 

I crumple up my receipt and hand Stan his Coke. He shoots me a smile, “Thanks, Ken.” 

I hope I don’t start blushing at the use of the shortened version of my name I’ve always loved hearing fall from Stan’s lips. “No worries. Wanna go to the playground or back to my place?” 

Stan weighs his options and I’m pretty sure I could identify his thought process. It’s cold as balls outside, but at my house, my parents could come stumbling home at any moment. Or Karen with her peppy attitude and trillions of questions. And it’s kinda dank. The playground is a shorter walk, and weed has a way of warming you up. He announces, “Playground cool?” 

“For sure,” I let him know. Before I can change my mind, I break the unspoken rule of not acknowledging how little we’ve spoken to one another in recent history, “I honestly think the last time I came to the playground _not_ to get stoned, Sparky was with us.” 

Stan’s features soften. He asks, “Really? What were we doing?” 

I squint at the road ahead of me, as if concentrating on the path to our destination will remind me. “I think we just decided to bring him along when we had to take Ike to the park with Kyle,” I chuckle shortly when I recall a humorous detail of the endeavor, “it was when he took a piss on Kyle’s shoe.” 

“Oh, yeah!” Stan exclaims in remembrance, tittering lightly. He shakes his head, “Man, he was so fucking furious. That dude _really_ hates pee.” 

“Dude, he was fuckin’ insane about it! He threw the shoe away while we were still at the park,” we both start snorting loudly, “he fuckin’ wobbled home all pissed off.” 

  
  


There it is; Stan’s pure #3 laugh. He claps his hands together and throws his head back, letting his soulful laugh ring through the neighborhood and cure my depression. I wanna laugh just as hard but I’m mesmerized by the sound I’ve missed so much. He lets out a high pitched sigh, attempting to calm himself enough to add, “He _was_ wobbling, oh my god! I wouldn’t let him take one of my shoes and he was all _It’s was your fucking dog’s fault, Stanley_!” I’m laughing harder now thinking about Kyle’s near daily fits of pure rage that I no longer have the pleasure of enduring. Stan’s swiping a hand down his cute face as he wheezes. “Fuck, that was so funny,” 

We’re still exchanging humorous Kyle Broflovski horror stories when we make it to the playground. There are two in South Park now, and we are at the newer one close to Stark's Pond that was built when we were about 11. I only recall our age because Stan’s parents were still together and he was forced to live out at Tegridy Farms and wear his father’s god awful merchandise every day. He loved bringing Sparky to the new dog park that is situated a few yards away from the playground equipment.

I steal a glance at Stan, and he’s eyeing the fenced in dog park in a way that says he’s remembering the same way I am. I reach out and clap a comforting hand to his shoulder. He peers down at me and grins. My stomach is doing a bunch of crazy flips. I can’t believe how utterly enamored with him I’ve remained over the years. It’s kinda insane; I’m worried I would still adore him if he tried to strangle me to death. 

When Stan breaks the brief contact I continue trucking forward to the multicolored play area. On one end there are two massive, forest green slides that curl into one another, as if built for racing. On the other side are shorter, sapphire colored slides that interconnect. I lead Stan to the blue ones and take a seat on the frigid plastic. My stupid heart flutters again when he plops down beside me and our shoulders brush. I distract myself from these feelings by popping the tab of my Sprite can and taking a long sip. 

Stan mirrors my action with his Coke. After a few more sips, he comments, “The sky is really clear tonight.” 

I peer up into the dark void of space again. He’s right, and I sort of noticed it early, but it is even easier to appreciate the view from beneath a stretch of tall spruce trees. It reminds me of the only good parts of living in a freezing, tiny mountain town. It is really pretty here. 

“Yeah, it’s pretty cool. You can really see the stars,” I add, and then raise a finger to point out a specific collection of stars, even though Stan probably still has no idea which one I’m referring to. “There’s the Andromeda constellation.” 

Stan tries to follow my finger to the atmosphere, and he nods along, “The one that looks like Tic Tac Toe?” 

“Yep,” I answer. I’m vaguely surprised he discerned it just from my point, but it just seems like we’ve already fallen back into our old sync. I am begging myself not to get too comfortable. I got a few more hours at most until Stan and I return to our very different realms of existence. I’ll go back to roach eating competitions with Craig and those guys, and he’ll go back to partying with South Park’s athletic and popular golden children. I also try not to let these thoughts ruin the short amount of time I have to experience this long lost bond again. “Craig told me about all the autumn constellations one time.” 

“Nice. It’s cool that he knows all that stuff, I could never remember any of it,” Stan comments, eyes still fixed up at the twinkling dots. He points a finger upward. “That’s the Big Dipper, right?” 

It is. “Yeah. I think that one’s out every night.” 

He lets out a hum and lifts the dark pop to his lips for a final sip. I listen to the liquid hiss as Stan dumps out half of his Coke onto the dark mulch beneath our feet. He shakes the remaining drops from the container before handing it over and inquiring, “Does this mean the weed will be Coca Cola flavored?” 

I snort, set my own drink down to my left and take his empty can. “I dunno, it’s been a good while since I had to hit a can.” 

Stan shivers slightly as I go to work preparing his makeshift pipe. I push the middle of the aluminum inward before drawing out my pocket knife. I flip out the nail file attachment and go to work poking small holes while he talks over the sound of my crinkling. “Thanks for this… you know I can give you some cash for this,” 

I shake my head, my blond bangs swinging into my line of vision as a result of the action. I blow them away from my eyes and keep working as I reply, “It’s no biggie. This stuff isn’t crazy strong anyway. I use it to help me sleep.” 

“Well, thanks… You’re seriously way too nice.” 

I replace my knife into my pocket before tugging out my lighter. I smirk over at him. He’s watching my hands work with great interest. He looks kinda nervous. “ _Too_ nice?” 

“Yeah,” Stan replies, taking my breath away by flipping his stare to meet mine. The artificial street lights from the playground work in tandem with the light of the half-moon to draw out the enticing various shades of blue from his eyes. The contact makes my knees feel like jelly. I’m in fucking trouble. “you always have been.” 

I shrug and flick on my small, Bic lighter, waving it over the holes I just created in the can, being sure to hit the larger one on the side as well. When that’s done, I reach into the Velcro pocket on my lower thigh for my weed jar. I pull it out and tell Stan, “You want me to take the first hit since it’s pretty strong?” 

“Uh, sure. It’s been a while.” Stan agrees as I break apart the flaky, green cloves and place them over the holes. 

I feel very scrutinized as Stan watches my every move. I hover a flame over the leaves and inhale when I feel smoke entering my mouth, and then lungs. It’s not even remotely as strong as what I had early, but it’s nice and smooth. Hanging the can over to Stan swiftly while exhaling. He takes it and I place his thumb over the hole on the side while explaining, “Breathe in to fill it up and them move your thumb away when you’re ready to hit,” 

Stan does as instructed and picks up on the concept without a hitch. I take out a cigarette for myself as I watch the ridiculously attractive scene before me. The way his neck extends as he wraps his pretty, pink lips around the tab-less spout of the can shows off his prominent jawline that is graced with the very beginning of dark stubble. It makes me forget to actually breathe in my nicotine fix. Even when I remember it does nothing to distract from the way the white cloud seeps from his very kissable mouth. I’m _really_ in fucking trouble now. 

We’re pretty wordless as I help him finish off the weed. When done, Stan pushes himself upward and tosses the scorched can onto a trash bin. On his return I see his eyes are completely red and glossy and a dopey smile is stretching his lips. He reclaims the spot beside him and exhales deeply. “I definitely feel better.” 

I snicker at his state, hardly feeling much myself. However, buzz I have going does give me the confidence to ask, “What was wrong?” 

Stan lets his shoulders fall and rise lazily. “Normal bulshit. I was just bored at home feeling sorry for myself.” 

I twist my lips into a frown and watch him tuck the hood of his coat up and over his beanie. He reclines back against the slide and folds his arms over his chest. I wanna say something but I can’t find the words. Instead I just readjust my position, pulling my knees into a hug. 

“You know you’re the first person besides, like, my grandmas on Facebook to say they’re sorry about Sparky?” Stan reveals. 

I glance over at him, perplexed. He looks sorta spaced out and flushed, but still perfect. “For real? What about Kyle?” 

Stan laughs sardonically. “All he said was, and I quote: ‘That sucks’.” 

I chuckle and shake my head. “Poor guy’s never known how to comfort people.” 

“Yeah, you’re telling me. I love him to death but I have no idea how he has so many friends. Or how I’m amongst them.” He keeps snorting in a disbelieving way. His eyelids look super heavy. Mine feel wide open when this topic is being explored. 

He continues rambling and I just listen; it’s very reminiscent of how our interactions usually went. “It’s so fucking weird that we’re like… popular. Kyle and me and Cartman just… I know that isn’t something you’re supposed to acknowledge—like—if you _are_ a popular kid, but it’s just… so weird.” 

I wet my lips and chime in tactfully. “Why are you surprised? You’ve been the center of the school's attention since preschool.” 

“It’s just—fuck, I know I sound like a tool, but I don’t know, it’s just so fucking weird. Like, I have so many _friends_ and people counting on me to do well in school and football and offering me extra help and support and cheering me on, but nobody was there to talk to me about the dog I’ve had for eleven years fucking _dying_ ,” Stan sniffs, shakes his head. I can tell he’s making himself emotional. His lips are quivering. “Like that shit really fucked me up, man. And I was in there with just my mom…and she had to work right after… and I had to just, leave his body lying in the middle of the room after he stopped breathing… fuck, I’m sorry I’m so goddamn depressing.” 

“Hey, you’re fine, dude,” I assure him, his choked up voice and watery eyes tugging at my heartstrings. “I don’t care if you needa talk.”

“I don’t even know what the fuck I’m saying,” Stan says with a giggle and a loud exhale. “I just miss my dog… it’s like he’s the only one who knew when I was upset or needed someone.” Frowning, I reach a hand out and rest it on his knee. The material of his sweatpants feel incredibly soft against the pads of my finger. He apologizes again for being a downer and I tell him not to worry about it. He giggles again, “Isn’t weed supposed to make you happy?” 

I snicker, “I mean this shit always makes me sleepy. Do you just feel sad when you’re relaxed?” 

“I always feel sad.” 

This hurts my chest way more than it should. I wish I didn’t care so much about someone who doesn’t even acknowledge me on a regular basis. I try to open my mouth to assure him, but it’s clamped shut. Suddenly I feel like a failure for not having a response—maybe _this_ is why my old friend group would leave me out of stuff. 

Stan continues despite my inability to react, his speech a bit slurred. “I feel like I’m just trapped, man. I don’t even know who I am anymore I just go to football practice and get told what plays to run and I go to class and get told what to learn and I got a bunch of jock friends telling me which cheerleader I should date and I got Kyle literally telling me what I need to do to stay upright and I don’t even have parents anymore and I just… I thought all this shit would stop one day but it just keeps getting worse and if I try to cope like how I used to they just throw me back into therapy and shit and I just… I just feel so _fucking_ trapped, man,”

“I’m sorry, Stan,” I finally manage, now rubbing his thigh comfortingly. I really try to ignore how much I like doing it because clearly he’s having a breakdown. While seeing Stan break down isn’t entirely new to me, it’s been a while, and it is not how I was expecting my night to go. “I’m sorry you’re still so sad.”

Stan shakes his head and pushes himself upright. I wanna whine at my hand tumbling away with his movement, but I just wrap my arms around my knees again. He stares up at the sky for a moment and sighs, “I’m the one who should be sorry… you didn’t ask for all this shit to be dumped on you tonight. Sorry, Ken.” 

“Hey, you don’t have to apologize. I told you, I’m all ears.” I assure him, eyebrows coming together to let him know I mean it. I feel like a lot of people don’t take me seriously because I’m always joking around, so I always try to make facial expressions that show I’m serious. Otherwise I just tend to smile and wink. It’s kinda just how my face works. 

He sniffs again, the weak ghost of a smile tracing his lips. “You always were the best person to talk to. I really miss talking to you.” 

My heart clenches. I can’t decide if I want him to continue on this vein so I can finally tell him how I miss him at least once a fucking week or if I want to yell at him for letting me stop being his friend. For letting it get this bad with no one to talk to. It turns out I don’t need to say anything. 

“I sort of wish I was you…” Stan trails off. I squint at him, quickly overcome with confusion. “you’re just so… free.” 

I scoff. I don’t mean to sound rude, but I can’t help myself. “You think I’m _free_?” 

Stan stalls, but sighs as he explains, “You’ve just always been so unapologetically yourself and you get up in front of class and talk about smoking cigarettes and being a failed abortion and you smoke weed whenever you want and you don’t have to live up to anyone’s expectations, you’re just _you_.” 

I chew and swallow his response. A lot of things I haven’t felt in a while are coming through today—right now, it’s anger toward Stan. I shake

my head and cast my glare away. “Dude, I’m not the one who’s fucking _free_ here. You think ‘cause I don’t have to go to football practice or get good grades I’m fuckin’ _free_?” 

“I didn’t—“ 

I interrupt him, finding my lost voice, “I don’t have to live up to expectations because I’m a fuckin’ _nobody_. I’m poor and stupid. My parents are drug addicts and don’t even remember my name half the time. I’m never going to leave South Park. I don’t get to go to college in a different state because I would never be able to afford it, and I’m good at football. I don’t get the chance to make millions of dollars. I don’t get people cheering me on no matter what I do,” 

“Kenny, I’m sorry—“ 

“Don’t say you’re sorry, dude, I’m just fuckin’ telling you,” my palms feel sweaty, my heart is racing, “you’re the one who’s free. You get to leave. You get the glory and the money. If you smoke weed, it’s experimenting. When I do it, I’m a deadbeat. When you fail a class, it’s stress. When I do, I’m lazy. You can be whoever you _want_ , Stan. All I’ll ever be is the poor kid.” 

Silence. It’s not the comfortable kind either. Stan’s staring at me with those big, gorgeous, bloodshot and teary eyes. I can feel it on the side of my face but I don’t meet the gaze. I focus on Andromeda and try not to cry. 

“I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean to sound like such a dickhead.” Stan promises. His breath is shaky too. “I-I wish I could just give it all to you.” 

“I wish you could enjoy it,” I retort. I force my head to the side when I feel a tear start to fall. Note to self: do not smoke this strain and stay away ever again. 

Stan clears his throat, wipes his nose. “I wish to God I could enjoy it. I wish I could enjoy anything without being fucking drunk out of my mind. I guess being high doesn’t help… I’m an anomaly.” 

“Yeah, you are,” I chuckle nervously. Glancing back over to him, I ask, “do you… are you still drinking?” 

He shakes his head, looks down at his lap and throws up a peace sign. “Two years sober.” 

“That’s really good, man.” I say, but I don’t think it was right. 

Stan’s still focused down at his legs, watching his feet push away mulch absentmindedly. There’s a loose strand of dark hair poking out of his beanie and I wanna reach over and push it back into place. He seems hesitant, but finally states, “It doesn’t even feel like I’m doing well. I still think about it every fucking day. I even used to…” he cuts himself off and shakes his head. “I just don’t _feel_ any better. I’m just _sober_.” 

“You used to what?” My interest is piqued. I won’t force him to talk if he doesn’t want, but it seems like he kinda wants to. 

It takes a second for him to find the answer. He repeatedly opened and shut his mouth before finally uttering, “I, uh, I… I cut myself…” It feels like a punch in the gut. I don’t have time to recover before he hits me again. “I did it after I couldn’t drink anymore ‘cause this lady in rehab talk about how it made her feel more in control of her body… it didn’t make me feel any better, honestly. So, I just tried to kill myself instead.” 

A drop of moisture finally trails down my cheek. We’re both sniffling and glancing tragically between one another and the sky. He throws his hands up in the air and laughs sarcastically, in a way that kinda scares me, “And I didn’t even do _that_ right! I’m still fucking here…” 

A few moments pass by again. By the way time tends to slow when I’m high, I’m willing to bet it’s already 11PM. 

I feel barely cognizant when I reveal in response: “I’ve tried to kill myself, too.” 

Stan snaps his head to me. He looks horrified. “What?” 

It’s my turn to chuckle sarcastically. I relay my half-remembered suicide attempt from a few years ago. “Yeah, I didn’t really know what I was doin’, honestly. I was just really down and I was a little drunk and I found this, like, fuckin’ nail in my bathroom and I just slashed my arm with it.” 

I shrug out of the sleeve of my jean jacket. The bitter Colorado cold chills me to my bone, but I reach over to show Stan the faint scar cascading down my arm. “Barely did anything, but I wanted it to kill me.” 

Even though Stan’s hands are fucking freezing, my being is warmed when they both wrap around my arm ans examing my pale skin. He lets out an audible cry after a moment of scrutiny. “Kenny… Kenny, I—“ 

“Sorry, man,” I laugh softly again. “that’s probably too dark.” 

Stan shakes his head, breathes in sharply, “No, Ken, it’s… You should see mine.”

My eyes inadvertently close when he begins gently dragging his fingers against my exposed skin. He does this for a few minutes as we sit in sullen quiet. The wind begins to hum softly around us. When Stan withdraws his hands, I slip my arm back into my jacket. 

Stan speaks up again, “I know why you stopped hanging out with us, Ken, and I just… I wanna say I’m sorry,” 

It’s unexpected of him to say. I blink over to him, “Whatcha mean?” 

“That one Halloween…” Stan starts. Guilt is laced in his tone and features. “When we all wanted to use those scooters that hook up to your phone… you didn’t have a phone, so we said you couldn’t come with us… You were so excited,” he pauses, and I’m clinging on to every word. Because he’s right. “You couldn’t afford a pail before that year and you finally got one… and we said you couldn’t come because you didn’t have a phone. When you spent all your money on a _pail_.” 

“Fuck, man, it’s fine,” I huff, looking away. I really don’t wanna start crying again. “Shit happens.” 

“I just know that was what broke us. You started hanging with Tweek and Craig a lot more… and eventually I’d see you with Token and Clyde and Jimmy way more. I was honestly really happy for you,” Stan shrugs. “I mean, sad for me, of course, ‘cause I missed you, but I know that those guys are way better for you. I mean—anyone’s a better BFF than Cartman,” 

I laugh at what Eric Cartman used to call me. “You got that right. Token’s never tried to pull a tooth outta my mouth by Timmy’s wheelchair to get a couple extra bucks.” 

Stan barks a laugh and slaps a hand over his face. “We were so fuckin’ awful.” 

“Hey, I went along with it for years, I’m not feelin’ sorry for myself over here.” I assure him with a smile. 

His pretty eyes find mine again. They’re a lot less red now. He must be coming down, too. I must be coming down, because his stare makes my stomach tense up. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m really sorry. I don’t know if this is true for you, but I think my life would’ve been way better with you in it.” 

I lick my lips. The way his eyes are scanning my own, I kinda feel like he already knows what I have to say. I speak up anyway, “I feel the same way. ‘Cept, I’ve never stopped thinking about you and missin’ you.” 

With that, I break the contact to reach into the pocket of my jacket and pull out my cigarettes. I’ve got two left. I offer Stan one and he takes it. Our eyes meet again, intense gazes locked as I light it for him. We smoke slowly, just staring at each other and smiling. It’s not like we’re having sex, but something is definitely different between us. I can feel it in my heart and veins and bones and it makes me smile for the rest of the night, even when I drop Stan off at home and go back to lay alone in my shitty twin bed. I smile and think of Stan until I fall asleep. 

-

After Kevin dropped the alcohol off to Bebe’s house and I helped arrange it on her kitchen’s island, I was off the hook. Clyde, on the other hand, has been what I can only describe as a waiter the entire night, walking around with a towel to swipe up any spills. I even saw him _dusting_ before the party actually began. 

I really hope she at least puts out for my poor friend soon. Though, I know he definitely wants more. 

Essentially as Craig arrived, he became intoxicated. Last time I checked on him he and Jimmy were having a lively discussion with Kyle about the Model United Nations club they were all a part of. I caught the tail end of Kyle looking incredibly bemused at Craig falling against him, cackling. I definitely want to explore that interaction more, but I’m looking for Stan. He came in with Kyle looking pretty broken up about something and now I can’t find him. 

While travelling through the lower level of the Stevens’, I saw the bright back of Tweek’s blond head adjacent to a dark-haired man. Relief washes over me until I realize it’s that goth kid, Pete, that Tweek’s been wanting to bone. I do not engage, and instead keep searching for Stan. On a whim, I duck outside to the backyard. There’s a small cluster of fellow teens gathered around a homemade gravity bong—none of them Stan. 

Not entirely giving up, but feeling pretty confident that Stan ditched the event, I decide to take a smoke break. When I trace around to a more secluded location on toward the side of the house, I light myself a smoke and tug out my shitty Windows phone with intentions of texting him. That’s when my ears detect sniffling from behind him. 

“Stan?” My softest voice asks. I’m surprised to hear crying as smoke fills my lungs. The noise carries me to where a cute ball of navy blue sweater and jet black hair is curled up against the siding of the house.

Startled, his eyes screw up to me in a panicked fashion. Quickly he jerks his sweater-paw underneath his eyes and sighs, “Oh, hey, Ken.” A small laugh follows his pathetic greeting. “God, sorry you have to see me like this. Again.”

I frown let my burning cigarette fall to the earth unfinished. I sit myself beside him on the cold ground. My heart flutters when our shoulders inadvertently brush, just as they had the other night on the slides. The feeling continues when I peer right at his adorable, puffy face and ask, “What’s wrong?”

Those words alone seem to trigger some kind of sadness within him. He hides his face completely in his hands and does everything in his limited willpower to hold in another stream of tears. I gingerly sling an arm around his shoulders and cup his upper arm, giving it a gentle rub. I have to ignore the insane flips my stomach is doing in order to be a comfort to him in that moment.

“I don’t know… I’m just being a pussy again. That’s all I fucking am.” Stan reveals through a broken tone. That statement alone tells me something serious happened. 

“What happened, Stan?” I rephrase the previous concerned inquiry.

He lets out a long breath. “A couple seniors from the football team were that fucking with me today showed up to this stupif party… I’m not even a starter yet, but they already think that I’ve been given too much privilege since I’m only a junior. I guess they found out about, you know what I did to myself and they…” I encourage him to continue with a thumb dragging across his arm in circular motions and a careful gaze. He swallows down a lump in his throat and finishes the story. “They had me pinned up against a wall and pulled my sleeves up… They started counting my scars and laughing…They made a bet on how many there were.”

My eyebrows crease together. I’m so appalled I start not being able to see straight. What the fuck kinda person would do that? “Who were they?”

Stan’s head quickly snaps in my direction, his hand falling against my thigh purposefully, “Ken, please don’t do anything about it. I really don’t need any more drama right now.”

I sigh, “Fine. I’m really sorry that happened to you. You don’t deserve that.”

Stan shrugs and returns his stare to the partially frozen-grass laden ground. “Maybe I do. I’m the idiot who cut himself.”

“Yeah, you cut yourself. And I smoke weed and half a pack every day. Do I deserve to be treated like shit, too?” I ask firmly. He shakes his head from side to side, still refusing to look up at me again. “Dealing with depression is really fucking hard. Nobody understands it until they go through it. You’ll never deserve to be harassed and treated like shit.”

It was then that ocean blue found my stare. His eyes are glossy and full of emotion. “I just wish I didn’t do it. Whether or not I deserve it, people are gonna keep talking.”

I wish he hadn’t done it, too, for obvious reasons. But, now seeing how horrible and insecure it made Stan feel was the worst part. My eyes flutter to his arms. With a rapidly increasing heartbeat I leaned into Stan and gently grasp his wrist in my hand. I watch his face as I tentatively pushed the thick, navy material of his sweater up to his elbow. His lip quiver and his eyes question my motives. He seemed half terrified that I would do the same thing those asshole seniors did. But I got a different idea.

I scan my eyes along the long, jagged pinkish marks that lay in a horizontal pattern all down his arms. My stomach lurches unpleasantly at the visions of this amazing boy sitting all alone in his bathtub, slicing up his perfect skin with a razor. The fact that he had hardly even done it to himself does not make it any better in that moment. I shut my eyes tightly and reeled forward while simultaneously pulling his arm to my lips. My nose touched his skin before I pressed tender, long kisses to each scar. It takes a full thirty seconds to do so to his left arm, and half the time for his right one. It doesn’t seem like long, but it also doesn’t take long to kiss something. When I finish I whisper softly, “You’re perfect, Stan. With or without these scars. You always have been.”

When I find the courage to look up at his face and gauge his reaction, I’m relieved to find watery eyes and a warm smile. We locked gazes and I swear I could have stayed like that for the rest of my life. Every part of me is on fire. The flames rose even higher when his beautiful voice whispers, “You’re the one who’s fucking perfect.”

He’s crying again and I pouted my lip. “Sorry if that was too much or—“

“No, no, these are good tears now,” Stan assures me with a weak chuckle. He lifts one of his hands to his face, the other one still clutching my arm. He wipes away his tears and continues to laugh softly. “God, what the hell did I do to deserve you always being here for me? Even after years of not even talking.” 

I smile. “You’re just you.”

“And that’s enough for you?” He scoffs.

“It’s more than enough. It always has been.” I confess. Blatantly flirting with Stan was something that I had been doing all week then, ever since that night at the park. We have still never talked about dating or kissed or anything of that nature, yet here we again—staring into each other’s eyes like we had been in love for a thousand years.

“Hey… You remember when, I fell off my Big Wheel and cut my lip open…” Stan asks me with a reminiscent grin.

His voice and suggestions are driving me fucking insane, but I do everything in my power to keep my cool. I lift my slightly shaky hand to cup his soft cheek. I traced the barely viable scar that comes out from the corner of his mouth and nod, “I remember.”

“You should probably kiss that scar, too...” Stan suggests, almost bashfully. I’m sure my cheeks are as rosy as his.

“I should?” I wonder with a smirk as we slowly lean in closer to one another. He mutters some form of affirmation as I get lost in that crystal blue stare all over again. The world around us melts away completely when the moment I have been dying for for years finally happens, and my lips finally become associated with Stan Marsh’s.

If it was possible, my heart rate speeds up even more when I feel his cold hand graze my neck as our mouths glide softly against one another’s. There had been so many sleepless nights and daydreams where I desperately pictured this that I can’t believe it’s real. I wanted to pinch myself, but more than anything, I want to kiss Stan.

After god fucking knows how long, we reluctantly drew back. My heart is threatening to shatter my ribs as we breathe into one another. Words fall from my lips without my explicit consent, “I’ve been wanting to do that since we were fuckin’ nine,”

Stan lets out a laugh and squeezes my arm. “I wish you did it then.” 

I kiss him again, and again until we’re drunk off giddiness and too busy laughing to keep kissing. He pulls me into a tight hug and I feel like I’m home. 

We stay like that for a while until we decide to share a cigarette. The tip of his nose is bright red, and the exposed skin on the back of my neck is freezing, but I couldn’t care less. 

“There’s the Tic Tac Toe constellation,” Stan points out after breathing out a puff if smoke. 

I gaze up at the sky to find Andromeda. I chuckle softly. “There it is.” 

  
  



End file.
